


Dream of Heaven

by Schmitty_Schmoop



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dreaming, Dreams, F/M, Fantasizing, Fluff, Light Angst, Pining, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 02:40:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29943237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schmitty_Schmoop/pseuds/Schmitty_Schmoop
Summary: What does a dog dream of?
Relationships: Sandor Clegane & Sansa Stark, Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 9
Kudos: 38





	Dream of Heaven

In the night he dreams.

He’s still _him_ ; still Sandor Clegane, because even in his most elaborate fantasies he can’t muster the optimism to believe that he could be anybody else; but in his dreams he’s _different_.

Whole. Unburnt.

He has two brows, two ears. The left side of his face is sharp and gaunt as it is on the other, wrapped tight with unmarred skin and smooth but for the little bumps where his beard grows in. He doesn’t part his hair to the side because there is nothing to hide. He is still not a comely man, but he looks like Sandor Clegane; just as he was meant to when he came into this blasted world, and not a hair different.

In his dreams he’s quieter, even quieter than he is in reality. He’s not angry because he doesn’t need to be. People stare because he’s a big fucker, and not because he looks like a seven hells-burnt monster. In his dreams he is still him, but he is different enough that perhaps, somewhere, in a world that’s not theirs; in a world where he’s kinder, softer, more like those true knights she so loves—he is a way in which she would have him.

He doesn’t want to think of her, but his will is weakened by sleep, softened at the edges until it’s nothing but a whisper he can barely hear.

~————————————~  
  


In his dreams he would court her.

He wouldn’t like that; would think it’s a waste of time, but she’d want it, and so he’d do it. He’d grit his teeth and think about how much of a buggering fool he is as he picks a rose for her in the gardens. He’d choose the loveliest one, touch the petals and think of her lips. He’d tell her what she wanted to hear, and it’d be alright because it’d be the truth: she’s beautiful, she’s kind; she’s all the things he’d stopped believing existed in the world put together into an annoying slip of a girl that barely comes up to his chest. He’d want to ravage her all the while but he’d restrain himself. Even in sleep he’s a well trained dog.

He would joust for her. He’d unhorse every bloody knight in the seven kingdoms and name her his queen of love and beauty. Maybe she’d accept his rose; maybe she’d even smile for him. He’d take his winnings and buy her a keep. It wouldn’t be as grand as her castle in the North, but it would be all hers. Theirs, perhaps, but he only ever thinks about that when he’s piss drunk and drowning in dreams fueled by arbor red.

But he does think of it. Damn him. Damn him for a bloody fool.

He would ask her proper. That means he’d have to ask her family first, he supposes. There’s no war in his dreams, at least not in the good ones. In those there’s no Cersei, no Robert, no Targaryens; no Tywin, no Stannis, no big brother to push his face down into the flames; nothing to stop him from riding all the way to Winterfell, bowing his head as far as it’ll go and asking Ned Stark for his daughter’s hand. He’d still be lesser born but he’d have coin. He’d work from dusk ‘till dawn to make sure he had enough gold to fill a little bird’s nest with a little bird’s every desire. What would she like? Jewels, mayhaps. Books, surely. Silks. Thread.  
Gods, he’d have to have plenty. Maybe he’d become a sellsword. A bloody expensive one. He’d keep her there, safe and innocent, still believing in her storybooks. He thought he’d wanted to corrupt her at first; fucking red headed whores and pretending that he was fucking all the sweetness out of Winterfell’s prim and proper princess. He came harder than he ever had in his entire miserable life, but he felt sick after. That’s when the dreams had started. Now they flow freely, seamlessly through the doubt and impossibility like water through jagged river rocks.

He’d still have to ask her, in the end. If by some miracle he’d gotten honorable old Ned Stark to let him have his sweet northern lass, she’d still have to say yes. It’d be winter. The cold’d do nothing for his nerves but maybe if it kept that blush on her face for a little longer he’d endure it. And if his hands shook as he asked her to marry him he’d blame it on the cold. She wouldn’t believe him but she’d smile, sweet bird.

And she’d say yes.

He sees her—her smile. Gods. When was the last time he felt something other than anger? The beating red thing in his chest is only good for two things now, as far as he’s concerned: keeping him alive, and making him feel a feeling he doesn’t have a name for whenever he looks at her; warm, wine red, like fire that doesn’t burn. Comfort. A hand on his shoulder. _“He was no true knight.”_

Sansa.

His mind wakes before his body does.  
The image of her fades and the world goes black before his eyes open, and he’s suddenly staring up at a dusty stone ceiling.

He is awake and he is himself again.  
He heaves a weary sigh. At least he knows one day he’ll get to sleep forever.

**Author's Note:**

> “What power would hell have if those here imprisoned were not able to dream of heaven?” 
> 
> \- Sandman, Neil Gaiman
> 
> It’s been years since my first little SanSan drabble, and this one came to me much the same way. Feeling sad and sweet at 1 in the morning has its perks sometimes. There’s even a little reference to my old fic in this one. Did you catch it? Thank you so much for reading ❤️
> 
> Also unbeta-ed so apologies for any mistakes.


End file.
